Beginnings
by MapleKomori
Summary: It's little Matthew and little Alfred's birthday weekend - the first one since Arthur and Francis divorced. FACE family, colonial, human names used. Note: Factual liberties taken. Please read it for the story, not the historical accuracy. Thank you.
1. Chapter 1

Day dawned early, brimming with the promise of summer. The scent of morning flowers perfumed the late June air, so Francis propped the door open wide. He crossed the cabin's slightly uneven wooden floor and pulled the curtains away from the window as well. Soon, the quaint log cabin was filled with warmth and sweetness and sunlight.

Stoking the banked embers in the tiny cast iron stove, Francis hummed to himself. He loved this time of year. It was a time of fond memories and new beginnings. He cracked a few eggs into a pan and set them over the flames to cook. That's when he heard a squeak and a thud behind him.

Francis turned around to see a pair of short, chubby legs sticking out from under a tangle of cloth. A single blond curl protruded from what appeared to be a sleeve.

"M'aidez..." the bundle whimpered. "M'aidez, s'il vous plait."

Chuckling to himself, Francis approached the bundle and gently straightened out the clothing. Tiny hands popped through the sleeves, followed by a golden-blond head emerging from the top.

"Merci, Papa," said Matthew. His little pink cheeks blushed the colour of nearly ripe strawberries. "Je suis desole,"

"Pourquoi?"

"I can't dress myself," Matthew whispered. Francis knelt by his son, holding the fabric of his pants and shirt together for comparison. The cotton shirt, dyed robin's egg blue, complimented the dark blue woollen short pants in a lovely manner.

"Ah, but I disagree, mon petit chou," said Francis. "You did a wonderful job choosing your clothing. I'll make a proper Frenchman of you yet."

For just a split second, Francis' thoughts forcibly snapped back to a time long ago. That man. His rival. His enemy. His lover. His tragedy. HE never knew how to dress, looking shabby most of the time and drab at best. No, little Matthew would not take after his other father.

Matthew. The little boy's smile brought Francis back to the present moment. So did the smell of fresh eggs, which were just about perfectly cooked. As Francis removed the pan from the heat, Matthew scurried to set the table. Forks and knives, clean but unpolished. A spoon for jam and an extra plate for the bread that sat waiting to be sliced.

Just as the two sat down to breakfast, there was a knock at the door. Moving as one, they leaned over and looked out the window. There on the their front step was a man with a heavy bag slung across his shoulder. Matthew shrunk back.

"Papa?" he asked Francis. "Who is that?"

"I believe that's the courier," Francis replied. He offered Matthew his hand.

"Shall we go take a look together?"

Retreating into silence, Matthew clung to the edge of the table. Francis showed him a gentle smile and then left him to go meet the man at the door.

"Bon matin," Francis said, in his ever-cordial tone.

"Bon matin, Monsieur... Bonnefoy?"

"Oui."

The man reached into his bag and pulled out a large envelope. Francis saw his name printed on the front of it, written in a hand that made his stomach lurch. A horrible moment came and went.

"Monsieur?" the man said. Francis became aware that he had been clicking his tongue.

"Je suis bien," he said, grasping the envelope. "Merci."

The man nodded politely and left. As through he was in a trance, Francis plodded back to the breakfast table. Little Matthew had not yet begun to eat, but he had cut a slice of bread for each of them, and was carefully spreading jam over his slice. These motions were so very familiar. Corner to corner, edge to edge, his knife moved evenly across the surface of the bread. Jam covered everything, stopping each time just before it reached the crust. These purposeful movements were an undeniable reminder of the other side of Matthew's heritage. The envelope burned in Francis' fingertips.

"Aren't you going to eat with me, Papa?"

Francis nodded. He knew he should probably leave the letter until after breakfast, but his curiosity was making him anxious.

"Please begin without me, mon mignon."

On Francis' study table, a letter opener awaited him. Francis seized it and gutted the envelope like a freshly caught salmon. The wax seal on the back of the envelope bore a rose and a crown, something Francis could stand to look at only briefly as he let the envelope drop to his desk. As he unfolded the letter, the paper rattled in his subtly shaking hands.

_To my old friend, Francis,_

the letter began. Already, aggravation forced Francis to pause. "Friend" was clearly not the word. And what exactly did he mean by "old"?

_Although the last time we spoke, it was on less than amicable terms, I write to you on this occasion as a matter of sociability. As you know, the boys' birthdays fall within the same week. Perhaps they might celebrate together? They have not had the opportunity to play together since the divorce._

_Divorce was my invention, by the way, and aren't we both happier for it? Why, if we were still following your rules, then we would be forced to remain together. Or I could behead you._

That last line was scratched out, but not so strongly that Francis couldn't read it.

_In any case, I propose that little Alfred and I visit you and Matthew early this July. Not for our sake, Francis, but for theirs. Please respond in time for us to make the trip._

_Sincerely, _  
_The Right Honourable Arthur Kirkland the First, _  
_Representative of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland _

Francis pulled his fist in tight, crushing the letter in his hand. He let the ball of crumpled paper fall to the cabin floor.

"A sign-off like that and he still addresses me as 'old friend?' Mon dieu."

The crumpled paper stared up at Francis. It might as well have been smoking like a mortar shell. Closing his eyes, Francis picked it up and threw it in the waste basket.

"Papa?" Matthew called from the table. He giggled. "Did you forget to come back?"

Francis made a point of regaining his composure. He smiled warmly at his son, and promised himself he would do what was best for the youngster.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur may have been wrong about a lot of things, but he was right that Matthew needed companionship his own age. As bad as the fighting between Arthur and himself had been, Francis had to admit it was unfair to keep Matthew and Alfred separated. There were no other children in the area, so Matthew's only friends were the squirrels and raccoons and ring-necked geese that populated the area. And, of course, his best friend was his papa - a papa who (however begrudgingly) knew the right thing to do. Grumbling, Francis pulled a new sheet of paper from the stack on his desk. He looked out the window to see little Matthew playing outside, and he silently cursed Arthur once more. With a freshly dipped quill in his hand, he began to write.

_Cher Arthur,_

_J'accepte ton idée_

He scratched it out. He had forgotten to whom he was writing, apparently. Taking another piece of blank paper, Francis reminded himself that switching languages was no sign of submission. It was merely an acknowledgement of his own superior mentality. He was, after all, perfectly fluent in English, whereas Arthur's French was rather lacking.

Oh, but when Arthur did speak French... or, at least, try to. His grammar was on the right side of acceptable and his pronunciation wasn't always embarrassing. And somehow, it sounded utterly magical - this strange voice, high and reserved, lilting around Francis' language.

Better times.

Francis dipped his quill once more and laid the ink across the page.

_Dear Arthur,_

_After careful consideration, I have decided to accept your proposal. Matthew and I will prepare the accommodations for you and Alfred. As I'm sure you remember, Matthew's birthday is the first of July, so please do not be late._

_Regards,_  
_Monseigneur Francis Bonnefoy,_  
_Representative of The Kingdom of France_

The ink dried faster than Francis had expected. He folded the letter neatly, placed it in an envelope, and marked it with his seal. As soon as he handed off the letter to be delivered, he hoped that he had made the right decision.


	3. Chapter 3

Flecks of grass caught in the carriage wheels as they spun along the fledgling nation's excuse for a road. It wasn't that no one cared enough to build a proper road. It was just hard to decide where best to put one, seeing as Canada had relatively few visitors spread out over a lot of space.

Inside the carriage, little Alfred bounced up and down on the seat cushion. The momentum of the carriage urged him onward while every bump they rolled over sent him popping out of his seat. He had passed time on the long journey by making a game of it, purposefully jumping and letting the carriage's shifting balance fling him along.

Under normal circumstances, Arthur would have insisted he sit still, but after spending so long in close quarters with the youngster, he was simply glad that he was entertained. Relishing these relatively peaceful moments, Arthur caught up on some sleep. He had no way of knowing when he'd be interrupted once again by a barrage of "I'm bored" and "are we there yet?"

Young Alfred was growing up quickly, becoming more and more of a handful each day. Sometimes, Arthur was concerned his son would grow up and leave him someday, but other times, Arthur felt that that day could not come soon enough.

"It's my birthday! It's my birthday! It's my birthday! It's my birthday!"

Arthur opened one eye and saw Alfred standing on the seat beside him, grinning from ear to ear.

"It's my birthday, right, Arthur?" Alfred chirped.

"Not yet," Arthur replied. "And call me Father. Or Daddy. Or Dad."

"Okay," said Alfred, resuming his jumping. Arthur shut his eyes again and tried to go back to sleep.

"Hey, Arthur?"

Arthur gave a subtle grunt of annoyance.

"Yes?"

"Are we there yet?"

"No. Why don't you go to sleep?"

"Not tired!" Alfred shouted. He added a chant to his jumping routine: "It's my birthday! Are we there yet? It's my birthday! Are we there yet?"

For the seventh time that day, Arthur's mind went to the bottle of whiskey he'd packed with him. There probably wasn't enough in there for him to get drunk enough to tolerate Alfred. Of course, if he gave a little bit to Alfred, that might quiet him down.

"Which is something I'd never do, of course," Arthur mumbled. The carriage lurched, sending Alfred flying. Arthur stumbled forward a little, and caught his balance on the door handle. One second later, Arthur realized that the carriage had come to a halt. He leaned out the window and caught the driver's attention.

"Are we there yet?" Arthur asked the driver, and instantly wished he'd chosen different wording. The driver tipped his hat in Arthur's direction.

"Yessir," he replied. "Shall I begin unloading your things?"

"Thank you," Arthur said, nodding curtly. He ducked back inside the carriage to let Alfred know that they had finally reached their destination. Little Alfred was asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Hauling mountains of luggage, plus the sleeping child, Arthur plodded up the path to the log cabin. He knocked at the door. And waited. And waited. Arthur looked back over his shoulder. The driver had already left, meaning Arthur was alone. At least, he felt alone. The sleeping child was more a responsibility than a companion, and Arthur felt more weighed down and tired than he had felt in ages. At long last, the door creaked open.

There he was, just as Arthur remembered. Tall, long haired, and with something of a miniature beard. Francis' eyes sparkled just as they had on the day he and Arthur had met. All at once, Arthur felt the bittersweetness of lost love and the angry rush of bloody battle. There were a million words he wanted to say. He started with one.

"Hello."

Francis nodded.

"Welcome to my home," Francis replied. "Please, come in."

Without asking, Francis grasped the handle on one of Arthur's cases and helped him carry it inside. Without protest, Arthur followed. Inside the log cabin, it was cool and shady and smelled faintly of pine. It reminded Arthur a little bit of his own house; the one in which he was raising Alfred. This house, of course, was a bit too ostentatious for his liking. Something about the bevelled framing around the windows and the excess of furniture annoyed Arthur. It suited Francis perfectly.

"I hope this will do," said Francis, showing Arthur to a private corner of the cabin. The cabin was short on rooms to begin with, and this one was further divided with a curtain. Inside this area was a bed large enough for Arthur and Alfred to sleep in together. There was little else in the area, save for an empty space in which for them to put their luggage. It was a small space, although Arthur had to admit, it was a generous fraction of the entire area of the cabin. For a moment, Arthur wondered what would happen if he would ask for a nicer space - not that he needed it, but that it might be fun to make Francis' life difficult. Then again, his pride put him above such childish things.

"Of course," said Arthur. "Thank you."

A heavy squirming under his arm drew his attention.

"Are we... there yet?" Alfred mumbled. Wriggling from Arthur's grip, Alfred jumped to the floor. He looked up and stared at Francis.

"Hi," said Alfred. "Are you the perverted old frog that Arthur told me about?"

"What the - !" Arthur shouted, diving toward Alfred and clapping his hand over his mouth. "I have said no such thing, young man."

Francis smiled, perhaps enjoying Alfred's cuteness, but in all likelihood, he was enjoying Arthur's discomfort much more.

"Such a sweet boy," Francis said. "When you get a little older, I've got something you might enjoy."

Fuming like wildfire, Arthur flew to stand face to face with Francis. He glared at him with all the rage of a thousand dragons.

"This!" said Arthur. "This is a big part of why we're not together anymore."

Francis laughed.

"Calm down, Arthur," Francis said. "I was merely referring to Louisiana. It appears all that time you spend in your horrible rainy climate is putting a damper on your worldview."

He put his hand over his own mouth, feigning to stroke his beard. In a quiet voice, he added, "And that is another reason we cannot be together."

While the two adults glared at each other, Alfred toddled off to explore. The layout of the cabin was neat and square; there was disappointingly little to climb on. Everything was either too fancy or too boring or too high off the ground for him to reach. That's when he noticed a little bed. Child-sized. It was made of wood and the headboard was carved to depict a decorative maple leaf.

"Yippee!" Alfred cheered. "There must be another kid around here."

"There is," said a quiet voice. Alfred turned around. He couldn't believe it. Standing in front of him was a little boy who looked just like him. The differences were slight; this boy's hair was longer and styled differently, and his eyes were a soft shade of lavender while Alfred's were ocean blue. Other than that, it was the same face, the same body, the same vocal timbre.

"Wow, you're interesting!" said Alfred. "I'm going to show you to my dad." Before Matthew could so much as step back, Alfred grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him to where Arthur and Francis stood talking. He pulled Matthew in front of the adults and put his arm around him.

"Hey, look!" Alfred said, beaming with pride as he presented his discovery to his fathers. Matthew shot a pleading glance up at Francis.

"Alfred, Matthew," Francis said, "I see you have met one another." Arthur knelt to be eye-level with the children.

"You two have actually met one another before," he said. "Only, it was so long ago, I'm sure you wouldn't remember."

Alfred looked at Matthew for a moment, then back at Arthur. He shrugged.

"How did we know each other?"

A pause. Arthur wasn't exactly sure how to answer that. He decided it was best to be honest with them as early as possible.

"You're brothers," he said, and watched for their response. Alfred simply nodded, perhaps not fully grasping what that meant. After all, he either had many brothers or no other brothers at all, depending on how one counts them. Matthew, on the other hand, understood it exactly how Arthur had meant it. His lavender eyes went wide.

"Vraiment?"

"Oui," Arthur replied. "Tu est... les frères. Vous êtes? Vous. Both of vous." He looked up at Francis, who raised an eyebrow.

"You are out of practice," Francis said. "Old friend."

"I don't waste my time staying in practice."

"Oh, is bilingualism too complicated for you? Can't tell avoir from être?"

"I'll avoir YOUR être," Arthur mumbled, climbing to a standing position once more. Any resentment he felt quickly faded, though, as he saw Matthew take Alfred's hands in his own. Matthew stared at Alfred in wonder, and after a moment, brought him into a tight embrace.

"Je suis tres, tres heureux," Matthew said, pulling Alfred closer. Alfred looked up over Matthew's shoulder, showing Arthur a quizzical look. Matthew didn't seem to notice.

"Bienvenue a ma pays."

Alfred gave Matthew a hearty pat on the back as he pulled out of the hug.

"Boy, you sure talk funny," he said. "Wanna be my friend?"

"Oui, bien sûr!"

Matthew felt Francis' hand tap gently on his shoulder.

"Matthew? Seulement anglais, pour Alfred."

Matthew nodded.

"Do you want to play outside?" Matthew asked his newfound brother. Alfred nodded with enthusiasm. The two boys ran out to play in the forest. As their happy laughter faded away in the distance, an uncomfortable silence flooded the cabin. After so many years of bitter separation, Arthur and Francis were alone together.


	5. Chapter 5

The cabin's interior felt humid and stuffy, yet there was an unspoken agreement between Arthur and Francis not to go outside. What they were about to discuss didn't need to be exposed in daylight. Besides, it was better to attribute the imminent discomfort to the environs.

"Matthew is growing up so quickly," Arthur said. Francis nodded.

"Indeed. And he was eager to see you and Alfred. Usually, he is quite shy."

"Shy, is he?" Arthur said. "Very good. That means he's less likely to grow up to be a philandering, egocentric libertine."

The glare in Francis' eyes had daggers in it.

"Yes, Matthew is rather shy and sensitive. That means he has emotions. You know what emotions are, right, Arthur?"

"Of course," Arthur replied. "They're those things you blame for your habit of sleeping with half of Europe."

"Because love is a thing to be constrained?"

"There's a time and place for it..."

Francis sighed and laid his hand across his brow, which Arthur completely saw as an intentional hair toss.

"Really, Arthur," said Francis. "There is only so much love in this world. Shouldn't we celebrate the joys of life? Or does that also need to be ordered and constricted to make you happy?"

"This isn't about happiness!"

"It never is, with you. The sun never sets on your gloomy empire because it never damn well rises."

Arthur flailed, fighting to keep his own anger down as his mind raced to think of a good comeback.

"Is keeping it in your trousers such a foreign concept to you? If you'll excuse my choice of words."

"All your words come from my words!"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

In the insufferable heat of the cabin's interior, Arthur and Francis found themselves standing nose to nose. Angry breaths volleyed between them. They caught themselves and pulled away from each other. This was not the time for a screaming match, nor for pouting and arm-folding. They were adults, empires, and had to conduct themselves as such.

"This is all for the boys," Arthur said aloud, as much for Francis' sake as it was for his own.

"You are right, Arthur," said Francis. "May I suggest we focus on planning the party."

Meanwhile, Alfred and Matthew chased each other through the forest. Birch, pine, oak, and maple stood in collaboration to create the labyrinthine playground. Matthew darted around a tree trunk and stood stock still, waiting for Alfred to pass him. His plan to take him by surprise did not work, however, because Alfred wandered off.

"Hey, Matthew!" Alfred called from a short distance away. "C'mere."

Abandoning his hiding spot, Matthew followed Alfred's voice. He soon found his brother crouching on the ground, poring over a fallen leaf. Matthew watched as Alfred picked the leaf up and held it up to the sunlight. Its long, symmetrical, waving shape was was illuminated, and all its veins exposed.

"My dad has pictures of these leaves around our house," Alfred said. "I guess he likes them."

"That's from an oak," Matthew said. "They're nice trees, and in fall, they make acorns."

"Wow!" said Alfred. He tucked the oak leaf into his pocket. That's when his gaze fell upon another leaf a few paces away. He lunged to retrieve it.

"And this one's a maple, right?" Alfred said, holding it up for Matthew to see. Matthew grinned.

"That's right."

"I recognize this one because I know you like them." Alfred handed the maple leaf to Matthew.

"Here," Alfred said. "It's a present." Matthew's eyes lit up. It was his first present from his first real friend. It didn't matter that it was just a leaf from the forest floor. It was special. Matthew accepted the leaf and held it as though it was a handful of gold coins. Carefully, he looped the stem around a button on his shirt until it stayed in place. Then he gestured for Alfred to follow him. The two boys made their way a little deeper into the forest. They stopped when they arrived at another kind of tree. Matthew scanned the ground for a fallen leaf, but it was far too early in the year. It seemed that the squirrels had been gentle enough in their running to spare these leaves, which were all still firmly attached to the tree.

"Oh, no," said Matthew.

"What is it?"

Matthew gestured to the poplar tree that stood in front of them.

"I wanted to give you one of these leaves," Matthew said. He pointed up at the lowest branch. "See? They're heart-shaped."

Shielding his eyes from the sunlight, Alfred looked up to see the leaves in question. They did indeed look like upside-down hearts. It was interesting, alright.

"Oh, I get it!" Alfred said. He threw his arms around Matthew, and then broke off the hug before Matthew could hug him back.

"I like you a lot too, brother!"

Alfred surveyed the tree for a moment longer before tiring of trees and leaves and other things he had back home anyway.

"What else is fun in this place?"

Matthew smiled.

"Let me show you something."

Matthew led the way in yet another direction. Mud and leaves and wildflowers formed a twisting path that led to a clearing. The sound of running water joined the chorus of bird songs. Matthew and Alfred stopped at the edge of a shallow stream. They both knelt down for a closer look. The water was clear; the only reason the bottom was obscured was because of the endless ripples created by the water running over the rocks. Just beneath the surface, a silvery fish darted by.

"It's pretty here, eh?" Matthew said.

"Sure is," said Alfred. The boys watched their glittering, distorted reflections in the water. The two shapes wobbled along, seemingly moving as the rest of the river appeared to stand still.

"You know," said Alfred, "we look a lot alike." Matthew giggled.

"Well, it's not really clear because the water is moving."

"No, I meant, for real." Alfred sat up straight and looked at Matthew. They had such similar faces. It was like looking into a mirror, only... not. Matthew was not a perfect reflection of him. He was an echo. A ripple in the water.

"We're brothers," Matthew said.

"I know," Alfred replied. "My dad told me all about my brothers. I have a brother in India and one in Hong Kong. I have brothers all over the Caribbean too, and in Africa, and in the South Pacific. But you're the only one who looks like me."

Matthew nodded. He knew his papa had lots of children all over the world too. But that was different. They were only his papa's children because his papa had adopted all of them. They had nothing to do with each other. Matthew had never even met his brother in Côte D'Ivoire or his sister in the Seychelles Islands. All those kids had roots and families where they were, but Matthew was all alone. And so was Alfred. And, he was hoping, that maybe these striking similarities meant they could at least be all alone together.

"Do you know who your mother is?" Matthew asked.

"It's Arthur," Alfred replied, matter-of-factly.

"I thought he was your father."

"He's Mother England," Alfred said. "He can be both." Matthew pondered this for a while. He didn't know what was true anymore. After some amount of time, his thoughts were interrupted by Alfred poking him in the shoulder.

"Hey, Matthew, Matthew, Matthew, Matthew," he said. "I'm hungry. Let's go back to the cabin."

Matthew looked down, making sure his wonderful maple leaf present was still attached. He tightened the loop of the stem just a little bit more, just in case. Then he led Alfred out of the forest.


End file.
